


Fluency

by overwhelmingly_awesome



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), But they're so bad at telling each other, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Falling In Love, Love Confessions, Love Languages, M/M, Requited Love, communicate out loud folks, how to tell a demon you love him, when he thinks he's unworthy of love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23062027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overwhelmingly_awesome/pseuds/overwhelmingly_awesome
Summary: Crowley's loved Aziraphale since the beginning, and he's told him so, in many ways.After the apocalypse, Aziraphale is finally free to show his love back to Crowley.Crowley takes a while to understand, but Aziraphale can wait. They have all the time in the world.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 182





	Fluency

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty! This is my first ever fic posted on here! 
> 
> It's not my normal type of writing, so don't get too comfortable, but I was feeling really romantic today, and a little poetic, so this happened. I'm marking this as teen, but there's some brief (seriously, super brief) mentions of sex. It's near the end if you want to skip that line. 
> 
> Please folks, tell your demon you love him.

Crowley showed his love in many ways.

He had loved Aziraphale from the beginning, truly. He'd fallen in love as hard as he'd fallen from grace, clinging to silver blonde hair and smiles and phrases that ended in _my dear._

Almost as quickly as he'd fallen in love, he'd started to show it, in as many ways as he knew how.

His love languages were inconsistent, but they were plentiful. He showed his love with gifts. With small boxes of chocolate, or tickets to a play, or a book that he'd _seen in some auction, I didn't think it'd be worth much to you angel, but I thought I'd grab it._

He showed his love with gentle acts of service. He'd take care of a miracle across the continent, he'd buy dinner, he'd do whatever it was that he did with Hamlet, to show Aziraphale just how much he loved him, how far he was willing to go, how much he was willing to do for him, no matter the circumstances. 

He spoke each and every one of his love languages fluently, calling them out to Aziraphale before he'd even realized that he'd loved him, simply thinking that perhaps the irregular beating of his heart was caused merely by the angelic nature of his drinking companion. Like some sort of mild allergy, where when one would come in contact with pollen or some such thing, they'd sneeze, or cough. 

Except for when he ran into Aziraphale, his heart would skip a beat, his hands would shake, and he'd suddenly have to fight off the urge to throw himself at the man-shaped being, landing at his knees and begging to take care of him, to give him anything he wanted, to _love_ him. You know, like an allergic reaction. 

Crowley spoke his love languages fluently. 

But here's the funny thing about languages. 

A person, or an angel, or a demon, or something in between, can speak a language fluently. They can pull the words out of their mouths with ease, spilling them out into the air like exhaling smoke from a cigarette. But when they're isolated, kept away from anyone else speaking the language, they have trouble interpreting it for themselves.

One can study a language for years, reading and writing it with ease, but without ever hearing a person speak it back to them, they'll never be able to understand it. 

Crowley could spout his love language to Aziraphale for hours, days, years, _centuries._ And he _did._ He never spoke anything else to the angel. 

But after the end of the world (or more accurately, after the day when everything simply continued to move forwards, as if its pause or stop had never even been thought of), Aziraphale began to speak back to him. 

He'd tried to, before the apocalypse. He'd whisper it between sips of wine, between bites of dinner, hidden in the shadows, away from the ever watching eye of someone other than God, but never loud enough for Crowley to hear it. Now, he was able to speak his own love languages to Crowley, fervently and without pause. 

However, Crowley did not understand it. 

He'd spoken it for so long, he'd given, he'd _loved_ for so long, without a trace of reciprocity, that he'd simply stopped listening for it. He'd waited, of course, he'd waited for so long, but after all of the waiting, he'd simply come to accept that it would always be some one-sided affair. 

As Aziraphale gave his love in return, Crowley simply couldn't understand.

Aziraphale's love languages were a little different than Crowley's. 

He'd thank Crowley, he'd praise him, simply for existing alongside him. He'd fill his sentences with _dearest,_ and _darling,_ and _dove,_ and Crowley heard it, he heard it every time, but hearing is different from listening, from understanding. 

Aziraphale would touch him. Nothing major, especially at first, but he'd rest his hand on Crowley's wrist at dinner, he'd brush his hand along the small of Crowley's back as he guided him down to sit on that worn old sofa in the back room, before handing him a glass of wine. 

Then, Aziraphale would wait. 

He would watch as Crowley continued to chatter away with his love, his behavior seemingly unchanged towards Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale knew that they loved each other. They were free to love each other now, loudly and in the open. Why weren't things changing? 

So Aziraphale continued to give his love to Crowley, who couldn't understand, who wasn't listening, who continued to love Aziraphale without expecting anything in return. 

One day, Aziraphale realized exactly what was happening. He'd watched as Crowley fed the ducks at St. James' park, handing the birdseed to Aziraphale intermittently as they watched the birds duck frequently enough to earn their namesake. 

Aziraphale had rested his arm on Crowley's, and the redhead had taken it as a sign to move his hand, to pull it away. He must have gotten too close to Aziraphale, he'd intruded.

Aziraphale had frowned. He was simply reminding him that he loved him. Did he not understand? 

It had dawned on Aziraphale then and there. He'd nearly dropped the seed into the river. The ducks were disappointed to see him clutch the paper bag instead. 

_Crowley,_ he'd said softly, almost a whisper. _I love you._

Crowley turned to face him. 

Surely he'd told him, Aziraphale thought to himself. He'd said it a thousand times over, in not quite so many words. And Crowley loved him back. Did he not know?

 _You what?_ He'd asked back.

Aziraphale's heart dropped into the pit that had formed in his stomach. 

_I love you, Crowley. Desperately. Did you not know?_

Crowley didn't respond. He simply stood, brows furrowed, mouth drawn into a thin line. 

_I love you Crowley. I know you love me. I'm so-_ Aziraphale had nearly forgotten how to breathe, watching Crowley try to understand. _I'm so sorry, my love, I thought you knew._

Aziraphale had taken him back to the bookshop, then. Crowley walked with him, silently. 

When they'd crossed into the threshold, when Aziraphale had taken Crowley's coat, and led him to the couch, he'd said it again. 

_I love you, Crowley. I have since the beginning. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry for not telling you sooner. I'm so sorry I didn't make sure that you knew._

Crowley risked a touch, then. He took Aziraphale's hand in his own, and let his thumb brush over the back of Aziraphale's hand. 

_You love me?_ He'd whispered, speaking for the first time since the park. 

Aziraphale nodded. 

_I love you too, Aziraphale. I love you so much-_

_I know, Crowley. I know._ Aziraphale brought Crowley's hand to his mouth, and kissed it softly. _You've been telling me for so long. I know, dearest._

Now, it was Aziraphale's turn to wait. He waited, and waited. Much longer than anyone should have to wait, Crowley thought, much longer than he deserved to wait, Crowley thought, but it was okay. Aziraphale was patient. 

Soon, Crowley started to listen. 

He felt Aziraphale's touch, he heard his praise, he began to feel the love that Aziraphale held for him in his heart. There was ever so much of it. 

Crowley learned to speak the language all over again, this time, listening, understanding. 

It didn't all come easily. Sometimes he'd still miss it, or stop listening for a moment, too afraid that it would all be taken away from him.

Aziraphale learned too. He learned to tell Crowley, to be absolutely, totally clear, every time he loved Crowley. 

He told him he loved him when he saw him in the morning, the soft light washing over him as he made coffee for him, tea for Aziraphale. 

He told him when they sat with each other in the back room, Crowley's head in his lap as he ran his fingers through the copper-red waves of his hair. 

He told him when he kissed him, softly, across his lips, his cheeks, his forehead. 

He told him when they were fucking (no, not fucking, making love. Crowley had called it fucking, but Aziraphale told him, with absolutely certainty, that it was making love).

He told him when his lips were pressed into the crook of his neck, when his hands were full of the thin demon, as they lay back in his (their) bed. 

And after a while, Crowley understood. Aziraphale immersed him in the language, every second, of every day, and Crowley understood. 

Instead of furrowing his brow, and questioning him, Crowley would smile, and return the sentiment. 

_Angel,_ he'd say. _I love you._

 _I know my dear,_ Aziraphale would say back. _I love you too._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it! I have a couple bigger projects on the way, but I plan on posting more little things like this in the future. Check me out on tumblr at writing-mostly-probably!


End file.
